


living like we're renegades

by lushatrocity



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Past Relationship(s), Revenge, payback is a bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:56:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushatrocity/pseuds/lushatrocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine. You get one case.” Holding up a finger to illustrate his point, he turned to leaf through the stack of folders on his desk. Grinning sharply, he extended one towards her. “You’ve got twenty-hours to bring in the skip otherwise our deal’s off. Got it?”</p>
<p>“Got it.” </p>
<p>Or the story in which Clarke Griffin unexpectedly becomes a bounty hunter and Bellamy Blake learns that payback is a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	living like we're renegades

**Author's Note:**

> Given all of the potential angst that awaits us in season 3, I thought we could all use a dose of good old-fashioned fun! I can't wait to hear what you think!
> 
> (And I am terrible at proof-reading my work, so please forgive any errors.)

 

Pulling up to the curb, Clarke peered through the windshield at her mother's house before checking the clock on the dash: 7:02. Given Abigail Griffin’s obsession with punctuality, she figured she had about ten minutes before her mother starting making calls to arrange a search party.  Slumping in her seat, she took a deep breath before biting the bullet and checking out her appearance in the rearview mirror.

 

Bits of leaves and twigs were stuck to her hair, a bruise was forming along her brow, and a large glob of mud was stuck to one cheek... In short, she was a hot mess.

 

But if we’re being honest, this was hardly breaking news.

 

In fact, this downward spiral began six months ago when she had the misfortune of walking in on her scum-sucking flea of a husband playing “pony” with his paralegal. This _horrifying_ encounter lead to her losing medical license due to allegations of grave misconduct (she may or may not have threatened to castrate the little piece of shit with a pair of scissors) and also being investigated for assault (her car _just_ happened to hop the curb as he was exiting Starbucks -- but it was a total accident. Really. The fact that papers had been sent over that morning outlining his plan to seek alimony payments was completely irrelevant.)

 

She was sure she had hit rock bottom the day that shame and a swiftly dwindling bank account forced her to tuck her tail between her legs and move back home.

 

(Her mother had graciously agreed to cover the security deposit for a tiny apartment in exchange for Clarke joining her for dinner a minimum of two nights a week. Judgy stares and lots of vegetables - oh yes, rock bottom was close at hand.)

 

It was at one such dinner that the topic of Clarke's current unemployment status came up.

 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to join me at the clinic?" Abby asked while spearing a pea with her fork.

 

Her mother preferred to eat her peas one at a time. She claimed it was proper etiquette - Clarke felt it was a form of subliminal warfare.

 

"I believe that would be a violation of my probation agreement," Clarke replied with a thoughtful tilt of her head, voice dripping with forced innocence. "That _would_ be within 500 feet of a medical facility, wouldn't it?" She watched her mother passive aggressively maul a few more vegetables before finally adding, "I checked the ads this morning, a few things look promising… I can probably get a job at a bar if nothing else.”

 

As if the burden of her daughter's failure was a weight dangling from her neck,  Abby slumped back in her seat with a sigh. "This is not what we wanted for you."

 

Biting back the sharp retort that hovered on the tip of her tongue, Clarke clenched her fists in an effort to calm herself. “Look -- I’m _trying_ , okay?”

 

"Get knocked down, get back up," Aunt Indra interjected from the far end of the table.

 

As far as Clarke knew, Indra wasn't actually related to the Griffins. She lived next door and had greeted their arrival with a bag of potato chips (a welcome gift, apparently) before announcing that she would be joining them for dinner in order to brief them on the rules of the neighborhood.

 

She had joined them for dinner the next night, and the following night, and the one after that. Her father had complained loudly about it over the years (Indra had a habit of taking the last piece of pie), but never actually did anything about it.

 

When asked, Jake said it was important to pick your battles but Clarke knew the truth -- Indra scared the pants off her father.

 

Clarke never complained about Indra’s presence, especially because she tended to take Clarke’s side in any disagreement, something that was especially important now that her father was unable to cast the deciding vote.

 

“I hear John Murphy is looking for someone to help with filing,” Indra added as she shifted her gaze to Abby.

 

John Murphy was a distant cousin and owned a bail bonds company. Clarke had never been a fan of John, but the potential for benefits and decent hours couldn’t be ignored.

 

Abby appeared to be of the same opinion. "I suppose that would be acceptable,” she allowed grudgingly.

 

****

 

“You don’t want that job.”

 

The woman behind the front desk said, tone flat. She was rather petite, with long dark hair, and a clear penchant for leather.  Her voice held the traces of an accent, though Clarke couldn’t place it. Eastern Europe, maybe?

 

Taken aback, Clarke stuttered. “Uh, why not?”

 

The woman, whose name was Lexa according to the little nameplate sitting in front of her, was in the process of refreshing her eyeliner so she kept her gaze trained on her tiny mirror while answering. “Filing is for the weak.” Putting away the eyeliner, she passed a glance over Clarke in a brief appraisal. “Are you weak?”

 

The thick bands of black surrounding her eyes looked more like warpaint than a fashion statement and Clarke rocked back a step. “No?”

 

Lexa’s mouth twitched before she gestured to Murphy’s office with a jerk her head. “Good. Now, go tell the little troll you are his new recovery agent.”

 

“A bounty hunter? I can’t -- That’s not a good idea -- my mother wouldn’t approve.” Lexa’s eyes narrowed, sparking Clarke to quickly add. “Not that I care what my mother thinks, obviously. I mean, I’m clearly an adult that can make her own decisions…” Pressing her lips together, she thought for a moment before asking, “How much does it pay?”

 

“10 percent of the bond.”

 

“Oh. Well, okay then.”

 

*****

 

“I want to be a recovery agent.”

 

“What?” Murphy glanced up from his computer. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head with a laugh. “No. No fucking way.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Murphy waved a hand in her general direction. “You’re … you.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t change the fact that I need a job. And we’re family.”

 

Sobering, Murphy appeared to weigh his options while studying her. She could tell by the set of his jaw that her _I am a tough ass woman and you should hire me_ body language wasn’t going to bring home the gold, so she added an additional incentive to sweeten the pot. “And I won’t tell your wife about your addiction to cartoon porn.”

 

Murphy gaped at her for a second before extending a hand to slam his laptop shut. “Cartoon porn? You -- you are a sick fucking person, Griffin. You should be in therapy -- do you need the number for a therapist? I mean, just because because a guy likes to watch certain videos when he's in the mood...This is America for christ’s sake  -- if a man wants to watch a sponge having happy times then it’s his goddamn right--"

 

Clarke coughed delicately. “Do we have a deal?”

 

“Fine. You get one case.” Holding up a finger to illustrate his point, he turned to leaf through the stack of folders on his desk. Grinning sharply, he extended one towards her. “You’ve got twenty-hours to bring in the skip otherwise our deal’s off. Got it?”

 

“Got it.”

 

****

 

She emerged from the office to find Lexa hacking at a pile of envelopes with a large dagger. It was hot -- and fucking terrifying.

 

“Who do you have?” She asked while lining up the dagger for another slice.

 

Tearing her gaze away from the knife with a swallow, she shifted to thumb through the file. “Oh, uh.. Anya Taylor. Arrested for disturbing the peace -- oh hey, she’s a yoga instructor. Do you think she’ll give me a free class?”

 

Lexa snorted. “You will have to find her first.”

 

“Piece of cake.”

 

Chuckling, Lexa shifted to rummage through a nearby filing cabinet. “You will need these,” she announced while dropping a pair of handcuffs onto the desk. “You want a gun or a taser?”

 

Clarke swallowed. “Uh … taser.”

 

Nodding, she extended the device to Clarke -- before drawing it back at the last second. “Just don’t zap yourself, okay?”

  
Huffing, Clarke snatched it out of her grasp.  “I’m not an idiot.”

 

****

 

_I’m a fucking idiot_ she thought, pushing away from Anya in order to scramble through the mud in search of the discarded taser. Her fingers just barely curled around the plastic before she felt Anya’s fingers latch onto her leg and drag her backwards.

 

Rolling over, she waited until Anya had tackled her again before flashing the taser at her with glee. “Take this, bitch,” she crowed before pressing the button --

 

\-- only to yelp when a few residual sparks caught her too.

 

****

 

She had survived the ordeal and even managed to beat rush hour traffic after dropping Anya off at the police station in order to make it on time for dinner.

 

She deserved an award after today. Or a shopping spree. Or a spontaneous make-out session with a hot stranger...

 

But she would have to settle for her mother’s meatloaf and a bowl of ice cream, instead.

 

Combing fingers through her hair, she did her best to make herself look presentable before easing out of the car and into her mother’s house.

 

Her mother sighed when she saw her -- so obviously it was a wasted effort.

 

“I’m just .. going to wash up,” Clarke muttered while nudging past her. While crossing the living room on the way to the bathroom, she jerked to a halt when she caught a glimpse of the television.

 

The headline said “MURDER SUSPECT ON THE LOOSE” -- but it wasn’t the headline that caught her eye.

 

It was the mug shot of Bellamy _fucking_ Blake.

  
“Holy shit."


End file.
